


He Seeks the Valet for Comfort

by orphan_account



Category: Jeeves & Wooster
Genre: Jeeves actually shows emotions, Pain, This makes up for the absence of hugs in the actual show, a fanfiction of greif, and Jeeves and Wooster hugs, sad!Bertie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-03
Updated: 2015-03-03
Packaged: 2018-03-16 04:37:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 10,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3474692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In London 1934, Bertram Wilberforce Wooster has lost a beloved member of his family and only his valet, Jeeves, can comfort him.<br/>At least, he tries to. Bertie takes a turn for the worse after the funeral - having never known grief before - and starts drowning his sorrows in drink. He's gone off his food and suffers from nightmares whenever he sleeps.<br/>Can Jeeves bring the grieving Wooster back from self-destruction? Or will Bertie Wooster end up buried next to his lost family member?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. That Day

**Author's Note:**

> This work has been scrapped and is no longer being continued.

It all started on that day, the Wednesday of the third week of August, on the 15th, the year was 1934. His valet, Jeeves, was 35 and the young master himself; Bertram “Bertie” Wilberforce Wooster was 30. The distraught, young master was shivering and crying silently, sitting on the cream white sofa, a pine green robe wrapped around his slender frame, a white towel around his shoulders and a handkerchief twisted in his hands, sopping wet with the man’s tears of grief. On the sofa next to the shivering Wooster was Jeeves, the valet did not touch his suffering master; he merely offered comfort and solace in his wise and quiet presence.

The reason for the sprightly Wooster to be so disheartened was because his dearest Aunt Dahlia had passed away quite suddenly. Aunt Dahlia was idolised by her nephew, unlike his Aunt Agatha, who would pass insults on him with no regards to his feelings or emotions and she liked to have herself believe that it was she who was the apple of Bertie’s eye (and was sadly still going strong). Aunt Dahlia was loved, not only by her nephew, but by most that had the good fortune of getting on her good side.

The reason of Aunt Dahlia’s sudden death was due to a heart attack, however the cause of said heart attack was still undetermined, it had been narrowed down to either surprise or exceeding age.

Jeeves looked at his master and observed the tears rolling down his pale face, the blood on his bottom lip from where the Wooster had worried it, the clenched jaw line from his gritted teeth, and the scrunched shut eyes. The valet was worried about his young master; the last time the manservant had seen him this distraught was when he, Bertie, thought he had turned away his only friend.

Neither knew it, but they were both residing in memories. Let me tell you Jeeves’ first: _The sharply dressed valet, clothed in his usual white shirt, black suit and tie and straight-legged trousers, his black, velvet bowler hat perched on his head, stood slightly to the right of Bertie Wooster, in front of a statue of an angel/cherub thingummy (as Bertie Wooster liked calling it). Bertie was sitting on a stone bench with his cousin, Angela and was pouring his heart out to her._

_ “I tell you Angela, I miss him frightfully, never thought I’d miss the old thing, I miss the way that he’d wake me up in the morning at the desired hour, merely with a ‘Good morning, sir’ and then smile at me in his rummy way and set the breakfast tray on my lap. I miss the way that he would set out my clothes and co-ordinate them perfectly…Now, I…I haven’t a bally chance at finding clothes that don’t make me look a rummy old fool.” Bertie paused in his speech and looked around, sensing a presence. _

_ “Hello, Jeeves.” He said nonchalantly and turned back to his cousin, opened his mouth as though to start speaking again and then turned his head back around, his mouth still gaping, “J-Jeeves…” His lips trembled and he rose to his feet shakily and walked towards his old valet carefully as though not wanting to frighten a scared animal. _

_ “Good afternoon, sir, I trust that you have kept yourself well while I’ve been gone.” Jeeves said, almost with a hint of humour, as if the whole thing was a practical joke or a test to see how well the Wooster could cope without his trusty valet. _

_ Bertie didn’t say a word, instead – due to the expression ‘Actions speak louder than words’ – Jeeves was almost knocked off his feet as his master flung himself at his valet and wrapped his arms around the slightly taller man’s broad chest. Jeeves chuckled warmly to himself and hugged the young master back. _

And now for Bertie’s less happy memory: _“Dash it all, Aunt Agatha, you aren’t telling me that you are accusing me of stealing your best blasted cutlery to please the guest I’m having over, are you?” Bertie said indignantly. He was standing in the middle of his Aunt’s sophisticated living room, looking down at his sitting Aunt._

_ “Yes, Bertram, I am. And watch your language.” Agatha replied. She only ever called him ‘Bertram’ when he was in trouble and getting a good ticking off, the mention of his full name made him cringe inside and feel like a small, six year old lad again, “You have been known to steal. For example: Policeman helmets, top hats off the top of respected gentlemen, cow creamer jugs from silverware stores, my best hat with the feathers to play pirates with your strange little friends, need I go on?” _

_ “For your information, Aged A,” Bertie snapped, his temper rising, “The incident with the gentleman’s top hat was pulled off by my trio of deluded friends trying to get into some rummy club, and the cow creamer jug was an accident!” The last few words had his voice rising into a temper-worn shout. _

_ “Bertram, there is no need to shout at me.” Agatha cried indignantly, “I am merely telling the truth.” _

_ “No you are not! You are telling what the people have you to believe! You are that…” Bertie fumbled for his desired word, “Pompous that you believe the word of the street rather than  _ **_ YOUR OWN NEPHEW! _ ** _ ” The enraged nephew’s voice shook the chandelier hanging above his head. _

_ “What on earth is going on?” A new voice drifted onto the scene. _

At the sound of Aunt Dahlia’s foggy, memory-heavy voice that had intruded on the argument, Bertie broke completely, what little control he had was ripped from him and he collapsed into floods of tears, slapping his hands over his face, dropping the handkerchief and prompting the first words spoken from either man since entering the room: “Don’t, sir.” Jeeves said, tentatively sliding his right arm around the howling Wooster’s shoulders.

Without much thought over whether this was right or not, Bertie huddled into Jeeves’ embrace and buried his face in the valet’s chest, completely soaking the white shirt with damp tear stains.

Jeeves was uncomfortable with the grieving wreck of a Wooster sobbing into his shirt, but he refrained from pushing the young master away, but instead used his brain to get a way out of his predicament: “Sir, I’ll run you a bath and let you clean yourself up in peace.” All this got from Bertie was a snuffle and he returned to sitting up, his back hunched and his elbows resting on his knees. Jeeves decided to try for a famous Wooster smile, “I’ll even put your rubber duck ready in there for you, sir.” He said.

Bertie puffed air through his nose in gentle laughter, “You certainly know how to cheer someone up, Jeeves.” He said, his voice cracked and broken from the emotional strain.

“One endeavours to please, sir.” Jeeves said, standing up and walking into the bathroom, where he promptly started to run the hot water into the tub and then the cold, he then put a hearty amount of bubble bath formula into the water. With his sleeve rolled up, the valet splashed his hand in the water to get the bubbles forming. Once he was pleased with the bath, he cut off the taps and squinted through the steam to find Mr. Wooster’s yellow rubber duck.

This was an incredibly precious article to Bertie Wooster, especially now in his stage of grief, the rubber bath toy had been given to him for his fifth birthday by his Aunt Dahlia and since that day he had insisted to have it in every single bath that he had, even in his teenage and adult years. When he was a young child, from five to nine years old, the yellow duck would go to bed with him and be clutched in his spindly little arms, close to his chest.

This information had been passed onto Jeeves when the pair had been talking over a cocktail and the two had shared their deepest secrets that they would hate for any of their friends to hear. Jeeves had sworn Bertie to secrecy and, due to his wishes; I am not inclined to tell you of what came out of the valet’s mouth in response to the subject of conversation. As this story centres mainly around young Bertie Wooster, I can tell you things that he may indeed kill me for if he ever found out, so if you do happen to meet him in the Drones club – where Bertie often meets his friends – or walking along the streets of London and engage him in conversation, please, if you value my life, do _not_ , under any circumstances, mention what I have told you about Bertie Wilberforce Wooster and his little rubber duck.


	2. Baths do Wonders for the Grieving Heart

Up to the bottom of his nose in bath water, Bertie Wooster watched his rubber duck floating along the water, moving his leg or hand to send a small wave over to the yellow toy and make it change direction and float left or right, depending on which direction the bathing Wooster decided to send it.

Whether it was the heat of the water, the soothing sensation of the soapy liquid against his skin or the bubbles that he couldn’t see past from his low vantage point, Bertie felt a lot better than he had half an hour ago. The tips of his fingers and toes had become as wrinkled as a dried up raisin with the amount of time he had spent in the bath; he lifted his hand out of the water and studied his wrinkled fingertips as though they were the most interesting thing that he had ever seen.

Bertie raised his head out of the water to speak. “I say, Jeeves.” He said.

“How can I be of assistance, sir?” Jeeves appeared in the entrance of the bathroom.

“Why is it that the longer you spend in the bath, the more wrinkled your fingertips become?”

“The correct term, sir, is ‘prune’” Jeeves corrected, “But in answer to your question, sir: Although you cannot see them, your skin is covered with special oils. These oils lubricate and protect your skin. They also act like a raincoat, making your skin almost waterproof. This is why water rolls off your hands when you wash them before luncheon.”

“What of it?”

“When you settle into a nice long bubble bath, sir, eventually the water temporarily washes away the oils. Once the oil is gone, the water begins to absorb its way into the outer layer of your skin.”

“Sounds bally painful, I almost wish I’d never asked.” He sat up in the bath and stretched his arms out; Jeeves turned his back and busied himself with getting a towel and robe out for his employer while Bertie climbed out of the tub. Jeeves handed the towel to him over his shoulder and Bertie rubbed himself dry quickly, and then took the robin egg blue pyjamas handed over the valet’s shoulder and slipped into the handed garments. He then took the robe that was given to him as Jeeves turned around.

“Are you going to bed, sir, or staying up for a little longer?” Jeeves pulled the plug on the bath and looked over at the clock; it told him that the current time was midnight exactly. Mr. Wooster should have been in bed three hours ago.

Bertie also looked at the clock and sighed, “I should really…” He trailed off.

“I sense a ‘but’, sir.” Jeeves enquired.

“I…I just don’t know if I’d…” Bertie trailed off again and looked away from his valet to the floor.

“You don’t think that you’ll be able to sleep, do you sir?”

The Wooster shook his head, not bothering to say anything. Jeeves dipped his head and put his hands on his master’s shoulders; Bertie’s eyes flicked from one hand to the other and then looked up at his valet’s face. Jeeves proceeded to turn the confused Wooster around and then pushed him gently into his bedroom. Bertie walked where he was being pushed, knowing that Jeeves knew what he was doing. The valet pulled the three covers that were on the bed and gently pushed his master down to sit on his bed and the valet went to lift the younger man’s legs into the bed, but Bertie shook his head and did it himself.

Jeeves pulled the covers over his master and tucked him in. Bertie watched his valet’s hands and then up at his face when they were withdrawn, “Will that be all, sir?” Jeeves asked.

Bertie fumbled for words, “Y-Yes, goodnight Jeeves.” He said.

“Goodnight, sir, sleep well.” Jeeves said and then disappeared out of the room, switching the main light off as he left.

Bertie was left in the dark; he drew into himself and clutched the covers all at once, bringing them close to his chest, shaking. His eyes darted around in the gloom, keeping on the watch for any rummy spectres. Ghosts were one of the few things that petrified Bertie Wooster out of his wits (along with threats that would hurt him, spiders, guns and loneliness).

The Wooster slid down in his bed and turned on his side, pulling the covers up over his shoulder. He closed his eyes and tried to drift off, but all he could do was envision the ghost of his Aunt Dahlia coming to haunt him, which in turn made tears slide past his eyelids and roll down his face, along his nose and drip off the tip of it. He sniffed and rubbed his eyes, opening them and turning on his back.

His eyes had gotten used to the dark now and he could make out faint outlines of his belongings in the room. Bertie stared up at the ceiling and let thoughts run through his head.

Memories of birthdays, Christmases, small errands that Aunt Dahlia had sent her all-too-eager nephew on flicked through his mind. Everything from ticking-offs to praises, beatings to being plucked out of soup, every interaction that he could reach in the dark concepts of his mind were brought forward and sent tears cascading down his face.

Not much else went on during the night, apart from the fact that Bertie didn’t get a wink of sleep, so let us skip ahead to the morning.

\- - - - - - - -

Jeeves had cooked his master’s breakfast – a soft boiled egg and toast that the young Wooster would dunk into the yolk – and was walking over to Bertie’s bedroom. He was about to open the door when his hand stopped at the sound of sniffles and quiet sobbing. Jeeves sighed; from these sounds he calculated that Bertram Wooster had not had any sleep.

The valet opened the door and walked in on a heartbreaking sight: Mr. Wooster was sitting up in bed, his knees drawn right into his chest, his arms were wrapped around his knees and his forehead was pressed into his kneecaps. The Wooster shoulders were shaking and when he looked up to the sound of the door closing, there were dark circles under his eyes, his eyeballs themselves were red and bloodshot and his face glistened in the light where his tears had travelled.

“Good morning, sir.” Jeeves said and walked over to stand at the side of Mr. Wooster’s bed. Bertie lowered his legs and stretched them out in front of him and winced as the joints cracked from staying in their cramped position for half of the night. Jeeves set the breakfast tray on his master’s lap and went to open the curtains. Mr. Wooster winced and shut his eyes as the light hit his face. Deciding to keep things in routine, the valet asked, “Did you sleep well, sir?”

Suddenly feeling a rush of anger, Mr. Wooster adopted an out of character sarcasm trait, “Oh yes, Jeeves, simply spiffy, tip-top, tickety-boo, absolutely wonderful.” Each word got angrier and angrier.

“I’m sorry, sir, that was thoughtless of me.” Jeeves said, standing at the foot of Mr. Wooster’s bed.

“Yes, Jeeves, yes it was.” Bertie said, suddenly the anger rushed out of him. “I apologise, Jeeves, that was harsh…You were only trying to help…” The young master sighed and stared at his breakfast tray. He felt sick just looking at the food.

“It is fine, sir, will that be all?”

“Do I have anything planned for today, Jeeves?”

“No, sir, but I think you should expect a visit from Ms. Gregson, you normally do on Thursdays.”

“Right…Jeeves, I think I’ll eat something later, I…Couldn’t stomach it now.”

“Very well, sir.” Jeeves picked up the tray and walked out of the room.

Bertie was left staring at his empty lap and then looked over at the wardrobe; on the chair was his grey suit and trousers, a grey hat on top of the pile, a white shirt under the suit, grey tie to the left of the hat, his grey socks to the right of it and his black shoes at the foot of the chair. Bertie massaged his right temple, his eyes closed, his legs slowly moving off the bed and once his feet settled on the floor, he stood up and staggered to the chair.

His eyes shot open as he tripped over something; he went down and knocked the side of his head on the leg of the chair. A groan escaped his lips as he felt pain in both the side of his head and his chin. The befallen Wooster didn’t bother to get up; he merely lay there looking at the space under his wardrobe. He found it quite interesting, all the dust balls and thickened powder coating the floor and wardrobe bottom.

“Sir, what happened?” Jeeves’ voice drifted into Bertie’s ears, his hands slipping under Mr. Wooster’s armpits and hauling him to his feet.

“Tripped over…” Bertie mumbled, staring at the oak closet. He had become faraway and dreamy.

Jeeves dusted off his master and looking at the clothes on the chair, “Are you getting dressed today, sir? If you aren’t willing to, then I will turn away any visitors and pass on a message while you catch up on sleep.”

Bertie nodded vaguely and let Jeeves pull him back into bed; the heavy eyed Wooster fell back on the furniture and swung his legs onto the mattress as he landed. Jeeves pulled the covers over his master; shut the curtains and packed away the clothes. Just as he was walking to the door, he heard a half-conscious Wooster stumble through a sentence: “G’night, Jeeves.”

“Goodnight, sir.” Jeeves said and left.


	3. Drowning his Sorrows

“I’m sorry, Ms. Gregson, but Mr. Wooster is catching up on his sleep, he-” Jeeves was cut off by the enraged Aunt Agatha at the door.

“Doesn’t he have night time to do that?!” Aunt Agatha cried, pushing past the valet and storming into Bertie’s bedroom. “ _ **Bertram Wilberforce Wooster!**_ ” She screamed.

Bertie’s eyes snapped open and he sat up quicker than you could say “How about some tea, Bertie?” His bloodshot eyes flashed around the room. He had woken up in a cold sweat, for his slumber had not been a peaceful one. But more about that later, for now we have Aunt Agatha to meet.

“What are you doing in bed at this hour?” Agatha said with her hands on her hips. Jeeves stood behind her in the door way.

“I…I was…I didn’t get much sleep last night…And Jeeves-” Bertie tried to speak as clearly as he could, but his voice was hoarse with sleep.

“Oh, Jeeves told you to stay in bed, did he?” Agatha cut across her stuttering nephew. “And I suppose Jeeves tells you how to dress, does he? Bertram, it should be _you_ telling _him_ what to do, not the other way around.”

“Oh, come now, Aunt.” Bertie said, then took the glass of water that Jeeves offered to him and drank it in one gulp. “Thank you Jeeves.” He put the glass back on the tray, “Jeeves has gotten me out of more soup than a parent could for their own offspring.” He said, turning back to Agatha, his voice now clear and strong.

“You would say that, wouldn’t you? Just because you never had any parents!” Agatha cried back. What she meant by that remark was that Bertie’s mother had died when the said Wooster was born and his father hadn’t stuck around to care for his motherless son.

It hit a weak point in Bertie, having always been teased for not having parents, and for once in his life; he stood up to Aunt Agatha.

“How dare you?!” He roared, getting out of bed and looming over his astonished Aunt, Jeeves quickly put Bertie’s tartan robe over the furious Wooster’s shoulders, while doing up the belt, he continued with his speech: “You think you can just show up here and tell me how to live my life? You don’t even _care_ about me! All you want are some kids to scold! You just want me to marry and carry on the Wooster name! Well, I don’t want to marry, I want to live my life, and you will _not_ have a say in it!” His words hit home on Agatha. “You’ve never bally cared about me! I was being bullied at school because I didn’t have parents, and what did you say? ‘Oh, buck up child, stick up for yourself.’ Do you know what that was like for me? I felt unloved, I felt…Unwanted, I considered running away and fending for myself in the streets.” His eyes were starting to fill up, “But you know why I didn’t? Because Aunt Dahlia knocked some dashed sense into me, she told me that if I went, I’d be missed by my family. That’s why I’m still around for you to pick at. Aunt Dahlia was…The only one that cared for me.” Tears were rolling down his cheeks, “You know what I thought? I thought that maybe…Maybe Aunt Dahlia’s passing would…Would bring _us_ ” He gestured from Aunt Agatha to himself. “Closer together….I thought that we could help each other in our grief…” He shook his head, “Fat, bally chance.” He broke; tears coming thick and fast and sat back on the bed with a thump.

“Well!” Agatha snapped, “After all these years, you’ve finally learnt to stick up for yourself.”

She was about to say more, but Bertie stopped her, “Jeeves…” He said with his eyes closed.

“Yes, sir?” Jeeves said.

“Please show Aunt Agatha the door.”

“Very good, sir.” Jeeves said and ushered the protesting Aunt out of the door.

Bertie massaged his temples, thinking about his nightmare.

_ “Bertie…Bertie…” A ghostly voice echoed around his mind. _

_ “No, no, Auntie, please.” Bertie cried back. _

_ Suddenly, Aunt Dahlia appeared, just how the young Wooster remembered her, but she was pale and almost see-through. “Bertie…Bertie…Bertie…Bertie…” She kept repeating his name until he yelled for her to stop. _

_ “Please, Auntie, don’t do this to me.” He pleaded, but she kept calling his name, over and over and over and over, until it almost sent him mad. _

_ Then, just before “ _ **_ Bertram Wilberforce Wooster! _ ** _ ” intruded in his sleeping mind, Aunt Dahlia flew wildly at him, screaming and wailing. _

_ He awoke to both his own and Aunt Agatha’s yell. _

“Are you alright, sir? You look a little pale.” Jeeves’ voice brought the shivering Wooster back from his depressing thoughts.

He looked up at his valet, “Er, yes…I…Yes.” He said, looking away and back at the floor. He swallowed and rubbed his eyes, “I think I’ll…Get dressed and visit the Drones.” He said, standing up.

“Very good, sir.” Jeeves went to getting out the grey get-up that had been set out before.

\- - - - - - - -

Bertie walked out of the flat, Jeeves stayed in their apartment to clear up and have his evening off. Bertie walked down the streets of London without paying attention to where he was going, he merely followed his feet by instinct. He stopped in front of Drones and walked through the entrance.

The man at the entrance counter smiled gently at Bertie and took his walking stick and hat, “Afternoon, Mr. Wooster.” He said.

“Afternoon, Bates.” Bertie replied and walked into the main bar.

As he entered, everyone turned and stared at him; Bertie looked away from them and walked up to the bar. Barmy came up to him and put his hand on his shoulder. “Bertie, I’m so sorry.” He said, the Wooster knew exactly what his friend was talking about, but before he could respond, Oofy, Bingo, Boko, Gussie and Tuppy came over and started to give their consolations.

Bertie began to feel crowded and snapped, “Yes, yes, alright, just please leave me alone.”

His friends nodded and left. The solitary Wooster looked at the barman, “Pint, please, McGates.” He said.

“As you wish, Bertie, m’lad.” McGates grinned and went to pouring the desired drink. “So…How have you been?” He asked, setting the drink in front of his customer.

Bertie took a sip of his beer and shrugged. “Not very well, hardly had a bally wink of sleep. Had an argument with my blasted Aunt Agatha, but never mind.” He took another, larger sip.

“Aunt Agatha, eh? Hm, even the name sounds annoying.” McGates said.

“You don’t know the half of it.” Bertie said, shaking his head.

McGates chuckled and went off to serve Bingo. Bertie, meanwhile, drank his beer in five gulps; he put it down on the counter and licked his lips. “Another please, McGates.”

McGates did as he asked without batting an eyelid. But he started to hesitate after Bertie had ordered his fifth and his speech was starting to become a little slurred.

But it wasn’t until his tenth when he was wobbling in his chair and sweating profusely that McGates refused to serve him. Barmy put Bertie’s left arm over his shoulders and Tuppy put the free Wooster arm over his own shoulders, and then helped him to stagger back to his flat. McGates gave them a plastic bucket to take with them, in case Mr. Wooster’s stomach decided to perform a back flip. Bertie ended up having to use it.

Bates handed Bertie’s walking stick and hat to Barmy and the latter plonked the hat on his friend’s head, but kept the stick in his own hand. The trio got the drunken Wooster through the door and hauled him into the lift. The lift man raised his eyebrows subtly and pressed the floor that Bertie’s flat was on. The sweating Wooster vomited twice into the bucket as the lift ascended, the sensation of the moving elevator probably didn’t help much.

When the lift bell dinged and the doors opened, Tuppy chucked a shilling at the lift man from Bertie’s pocket and then proceeded to half-support, half-carry Bertie down to his flat. The pair searched his pockets for the key, and Barmy found it in his inside pocket. The one that found the key unlocked the door and sat him down on the sofa, putting the bucket on his lap where he could reach it.

Jeeves sighed very quietly. “Good heavens, what happened?”

Barmy rubbed the back of his neck, while Tuppy took charge. “He got drunk and we had to carry him home.” He said, fiddling with his thumbs.

Jeeves nodded and retreated into the kitchen, a few minutes later he returned with a drink that looked a lot like something the boys at the Drones would dare someone to drink. It was a thick red colour and didn’t look very appetising, the valet served it on a tray to Bertie and the Wooster took it and downed it in one. He grimaced and hiccupped.

“Thank you, sir and sir, for bringing him back.” Jeeves said to Barmy and Tuppy.

They doffed their hats and left. Jeeves looked at Bertie as he heard him depositing some more of his insides into the bucket. Jeeves’ concoction would kick in soon enough and then the Wooster would return to his normal, non-drunk self.

\- - - - - - - -

It was probably due to the amount of beer that he had consumed and Jeeves’ drink couldn’t work against so much alcohol, but Bertie was vomiting into the bucket most of the night. He got about an hour of sleep and that was interrupted by a nightmare.

_ “Bertie…Bertie…” _

_ “Aunt, please, don’t do this to me, I don’t want you to haunt me.” Bertie whined miserably. _

_ “Bertie…You are a worm…You are a disrespectful maggot…Your mother would be turning in her grave…” _

_ “No…Aunt…No, I...I thought you cared for me.” _

_ “Cared for you? No one has ever cared about you…Not even your own father cared enough to stick around and take care of you…He knew, he knew that you wouldn’t bring anything to the family.” _

_ “No, no, you cared about me, didn’t you?” _

_ “Aunt Dahlia did, but I don’t.” Suddenly, Aunt Agatha appeared. _

_ “ _ **_ NO, NO, NO, NO, HOW COULD YOU?! _ ** _ ” _

Bertie awoke to own yell and started to cry, the words that his Aunt Agatha had spoken about him being uncared for was his own mind telling him what he already knew, deep down. No one had ever _really_ cared, only Aunt Dahlia had held a special place for him in her heart.

Jeeves opened the door, switched the light on and looked at the sobbing Wooster. “Sir?”

Bertie looked up and his shoulders sagged. “It was only a nightmare, Jeeves…D-Don’t worry about me.” He said, rubbing his eyes with his sleeve.

“Very well, Sir.” Jeeves said and disappeared out of the room.


	4. The Song

The next morning, Jeeves heard him playing on the piano and singing. The valet listened from where he stood in the living room.

“ _You said when you'd die that you'd walk with me every day_  
 _And I'd start to cry and say ‘Please don't talk that way’_  
 _With the blink of an eye the Lord came and asked you to meet_  
 _You went to a better place but He stole you away from me._ ”

Jeeves could hear the tears threatening to spill in Bertie’s voice.

“ _And now she lives in heaven_  
 _But I know they let her out_  
 _To take care of me_.”

The valet started to wonder where Mr. Wooster had heard the song, he rather liked it, much more than the silly ‘Forty-Seven Ginger-Headed Sailors’ song that was often played. This song didn’t sound like something that would be played at the Drones.

“ _There's a strange kind of light_  
 _Caressing me tonight_  
 _Pray silence my fear she is near_  
 _Bringing heaven down here._ ”

Jeeves decided to go up into the piano room and see if Bertie was alright.

“ _I miss your love, I miss your touch_  
 _But I'm feeling you every day_  
 _And I can almost hear you say_  
 _'You've come a long way baby'._ ”

The valet walked into the room and closed the door as quietly as he could. He looked at the still shoulders of Mr. Wooster and listened to his quivering voice.

“ _And now you live in heaven_  
 _But I know they let you out_  
 _To take care of me._ ”

Jeeves stood behind him in silence and tried to think of where he had heard the song, it sounded familiar to him.

“ _There's a strange kind of light_  
 _In my bedroom tonight_  
 _Pray silence my fear she is near_  
 _Bringing heaven down here._ ”

“ _You taught me kings and queens_  
 _While stroking my hair_  
 _In my darkest hour I know you are there_  
 _Kneeling down beside me_  
 _Whispering my prayer._ ”

“ _Yes there's a strange kind of light_  
 _Caressing me tonight_  
 _Pray silence my fear_  
 _She is near_  
 _Bringing heaven down here._ ”

“ _The next time that we meet_  
 _I will bow at her feet_  
 _And say ‘Wasn't life sweet?’_  
 _Then we'll prepare_  
 _To take heaven down there._ ”

Bertie played the last note and looked behind him, sensing Jeeves’ presence. He shifted himself around until he was facing his valet. “What did you think to that song, Jeeves? Like it?” He said, his voice quivery and his eyes watering.

“Yes, it’s very nice; may I ask where you heard it, sir?” Jeeves replied.

“I chanced upon it when I was walking past King’s Cross station last week and it was playing from a shop. I went into the music store on the way home and looked through all the lyrics of half of the new songs that had been just been delivered to them. It’s called ‘ _Nan’s Song_ ’ by a chap called Robbie Williams. I thought I could…Play it at Aunt Dahlia’s funeral.” Bertie’s eyes flicked down at his lap and then his head followed his gaze.

“I think that would be most wise, sir, if you trust your emotions to hold strong until the song is over?” Jeeves raised his eyebrows questioningly.

“They’ll bally have to, won’t they?” Bertie said, putting his elbow on the piano keys. It was his right; the one near to the low notes, as it pressed the three keys down, the piano emitted a deep melody and made the Wooster jump. He straightened up quicker than a rabbit in headlights and his eyes rolled up to the ceiling in annoyance at himself.

Jeeves sighed quietly and his mouth twitched in an effort not to laugh. “I received a phone call earlier today saying that the Vicar is coming over to sort out when the funeral should be set, he did not, however, leave a specific-” Jeeves was cut off by the doorbell ringing. “That is probably him now, sir.” He said and left the room.

Bertie swallowed and stood up from the piano stool, tugged a little on his suit collar and adjusted his tie, then walked into the living room and stood in front of the sofa.

The Vicar was revealed as the door was opened and the white-robed man walked through the door frame. “Mr. Wooster, I am so very sorry for your loss, may God have mercy on you in your grief.”

Bertie’s stomach churned, he wasn’t religious at all and this would be painful to listen to the Vicar’s long drones about God or Jesus or something like that. “Nice to meet you, Vicar, I’m coping…Rather well with Aunt Dahlia’s passing.” He cast a quick glance at Jeeves, whose eyes flicked up to the ceiling and his head tilting back slightly.

“That is always very good to hear, now for the matter at hand.” The Vicar said.

“Do sit down.” Bertie gestured to the chairs behind him.

“Thank you, child. I do not know what people mean when they speak ill of you.” The Vicar said, sitting down in a chair on the right and Bertie sat on the sofa.

“Yes, well, I’m not as bad as people believe; rumours aren’t the most flattering thing in the world.”

“As a man of the church, I do not care for rumours.” The Vicar said. “Now, for starters, what date would be the most appropriate?”

“Today is the 18th, so…Wednesday, next week, the 23rd?” Bertie said.

“That is perfect for me, what songs do you want to be played?”

“Her favourite song was ‘ _Puttin’ on the Ritz_ ’ by Irving Berlin, so that could be played as…As the coffin was…Being carried in.” Bertie swallowed. “I was wondering if, just before the speeches, I could play a new song I came upon, called ‘ _Nan’s Song_ ’ by a chap called Robbie Williams?”

“That sounds wonderful, could I hear it?” The Vicar asked.

“Er…Alright…” Bertie stood up and walked into the piano room and sat at the piano.


	5. The Vicar's Praise

He flicked back to the start of song on his music booklet and placed his shaking hands on the starting keys. He pressed down and his hands started to move along the piano as though they were underlining the words of one his beloved mystery novels.

Then he opened his mouth to start singing and the Vicar’s eyebrows raised, he hadn’t a clue that Bertie Wooster – a young, bouncing, charismatic fool – could sing like a mature man. His voice was deep and tuneful; pleasing to the ears and the Vicar – normally cold and emotionless – was left with his mouth agape and chills tickling his spine.

Bertie ended the song and turned to the Vicar. “What did you think, man of the church?”

“That was…Wonderful, your voice is beautiful, very unique, would you ever consider joining the choir or being an organ player?”

“No, no…Churches make me uncomfortable, no offense.” Bertie’s cheeks flushed bright red at the Vicar’s praise.

“No offense taken, you can _definitely_ sing at the funeral.” The white-robed man of the church said.

“I think…When everyone is leaving, ‘ _Forty-Seven Ginger-Headed Sailors_ ' by Leslie Sarony should be played. You know, to make people smile when leaving.” Bertie said.

“What about the coffin?”

“I think…It should be white and have pictures of her and the family around it, I have some photos that you can use as long as I can get them back.”

“Of course, I’ll bring them back personally myself.”

“Thank you. Does there have to be a specific type of flower to throw down into the grave? You know, when the coffin has been placed in it?”

“No, no, anyone attending the funeral should bring their own flowers, so they have a choice as to what they think Aunt Dahlia would want. What will you bring?” The Vicar asked.

“A tulip, a white one, she always loved one in my lapel.” Bertie swallowed again and closed his eyes briefly.

“That’s lovely. Well, that seems to be all, other than the specific details you have given, it will be the standard ceremony.” The Vicar said.

“Alright, I’ll spread the word to my family of the date to Aunt Dahlia’s funeral.” Bertie stood up and put a hand on the Vicar’s shoulder and accompanied him to the door.

Jeeves opened the door and tipped his hat to the departing church man.

When the door had closed, Bertie sat down on the sofa and pinched the bridge of his nose; his eyes scrunched shut, his jaw trembling.

“Well, that’s it, I’ve planned the funeral. On the 23rd, Aunt Dahlia will be buried and a huge weight should be lifted from my heart.” Bertie said, dropping his hand and opening his eyes.

“Grief is not always dispatched from the heart when the deceased is buried, sir, sometimes it can take weeks, months, even years for the said griever to truly get over the departure.” Jeeves said from behind the young master.

“Well, however long it takes for me to get over it, it won’t get in the way of my life, and that’s bally well that.” Bertie said.

Oh, how wrong he was.


	6. Spreading the News

He held the phone in his sweating hand and dialled his cousin Angela, Aunt Dahlia’s daughter and told her the date of her mother’s funeral. He did the same with Uncle Henry, his mother’s brother and was labelled as the family embarrassment (even though Bertie had always adored him). And Uncle George, brother to his father, got a ring too.

Bertie then proceeded to ring his two Uncles-by-marriage: Uncle Tom Travers, widower of Aunt Dahlia and Uncle Spenser Gregson, Aunt Agatha’s husband.

After those two, he rang his two Aunts-by-marriage: Aunt Julia, the widow of Uncle Cuthbert and Aunt Emily, mother to his twin cousins, Claude and Eustace.

He rang his two cousins as well in case they weren’t there when their mother was alerted of the news.

He then dialled his Aunt Agatha’s number, as the phone rang he thought about his father; Aunt Dahlia and Agatha were the siblings of his male parent and when he had first found out that dear old daddy had left, the orphaned Wooster had sometimes asked where he had gone, but he never received an answer.

“Well, Bertie, what do you want?” Aunt Agatha snapped down the telephone.

“Aunt, I just wanted to tell you that Aunt Dahlia’s funeral is to be on the 23rd.” Bertie replied coldly, “I hope you can put aside your business of trying to find a suitable wife for me and make it?” He added this to his icy reply because he knew it would flare Agatha’s anger and he _wanted_ it to sting.

“Yes, much to your disappointment, I should think.”

“You couldn’t be more right, goodbye, Aunt.” Bertie said. His voice was frosty to the very core and he slammed the phone down with such force that he was surprised it didn’t snap in half.

He paced up and down the living room and didn’t even look up when Jeeves walked in with luncheon on a tray. “Are you alright, sir?” He asked, setting the tray down on the dining table at the other end of the room.

Bertie looked over at his valet. “Yes, yes, I’m fine, Jeeves.” He snapped.

“Very well, sir.” Jeeves said and without another word, he left the room back into the kitchen.

Bertie sat down in front of the tray of food that his valet had set down and picked up one of the many smoked salmon sandwiches in white bread. He nibbled at the edges, preoccupied with thoughts of the funeral and trying incredibly hard to push away the memories of his childhood in which Uncle Henry and Aunt Dahlia had been playing with him. Blurry images of Uncle Henry jumping out from behind a bush and chasing after his young nephew over to Aunt Dahlia, who scooped him up and carried him on her shoulders, laughing all the way brought a stabbing pain to his heart and he put his sandwich down, losing his appetite quite quickly.

He leant back in his chair and tilted his head back, staring up at the ceiling. He swallowed and massaged his forehead, his eyes shut and his hands trembling. “Sir?” The trembling Wooster jumped as his valet’s voice echoed in his ears.

He turned around. “Ah, Jeeves. Er…I haven’t really got much of an appetite, so could you…?” Bertie fumbled for his words, trying to find ones that wouldn’t anger or offend his most trusted friend.

“Take it away, sir?” Jeeves finished the sentence for his young master.

“Yes, thank you, Jeeves.” Bertie said.

“Very well, sir.” Jeeves picked up the silver tray off the table and took it into the kitchen.

The valet was not pleased at all; Bertie _needed_ to eat, he couldn’t keep turning away his meals with hardly a bite out of it, he needed the nourishment. In the valet’s mind, Mr. Wooster was morphing and changing from where he stood, his cheek bones hollowed, his bones jutting out in his skin, his clothes hanging limply on his lithe frame.

 The valet shook the thought out of his brain and brushed the untouched sandwiches into the bin and started to wash up the plate. He walked back into the room and stood there, just watching the stone still body of Bertie, his back turned to the valet and his head angled toward the wall.

Suddenly, the man that had been so still he could have been a statue, stood up and looked back at Jeeves, their eyes locked for several minutes until Bertie broke the silence. “Do you think I’m a fool, Jeeves?” The question was that of a young, desperate child, full of sadness and self-doubt.

Jeeves mulled the question over, phrasing his sentence carefully. “Sir, you are a wonderful man, the best man I have ever known. Trust me, sir, you have never been and nor will you ever be a fool.”

Bertie sighed. “For the first time, Jeeves, I find myself doubting you.”

“Sir, you treat everyone with respect and kindness, however badly they have done you wrong. You never give one thought about yourself when helping a friend or family member in need. Those are the qualities of a truly smart man, not his wit or intelligence. People think that you are a bumbling, childish fool, but you are not, people think this because you have an outgoing will for life, all you want is to live your life to the full. You need to have faith in yourself, never call yourself a fool.” Jeeves said, his voice pronouncing each word with certainty.

Bertie smiled, but it was dead, empty and dead, hopeless as a man on the streets looking in at a family gathered around the table, laughing, eating their Christmas dinner, having everything that said man didn’t; money, food, family, joy…A reason to live. The curves of the Wooster mouth were turned up in their usual joyous enthusiasm, but the mouth does not always cooperate with the eyes and thus, the Wooster eyes lacked their glint of humour or friendliness or even cruelty, which would come about when he had said something that was meant to sting.

It was as though he had become a picture, a black and white picture, devoid of any colour, joy or pleasing-to-the-eye-air. The grief of his Aunt’s Dahlia’s death was starting to show through his skin, upon his very being. His eyes were weary and tired, underlined with dark circles from where his sleepless nights were illustrated, painstakingly shaded to make the canvas look frail and fragile. His shoulders were drooped, as though a weight that he could only just hold up was strapped to them or an invisible person was forcing them down with their hands and just followed him, making him feel depressed and weary.

Jeeves withdrew back into the kitchen, to think about how to start erasing his young master’s unwanted illustrations.

Back in the living room, Bertie dropped his smile and sat down on the sofa. Thoughts of the ache of hunger in neither his stomach nor his temples crossed his mind, but the predicament as to whether he should invite his Drones club friends to the funeral or not, however, did. The troubled Wooster had some knowledge of their gate-crashing habits when it came to special occasions, but he wondered whether, with their knowledge of how much his Aunt had meant to him, they would refrain themselves and be thoughtful to their grieving Wooster friend.

He was also thinking about inviting the Glossops, he had no quarrels with them now and they had rather come to…Accept his existence in the world. And if he was to invite Tuppy, then he would surely have to invite Sir Roderick and Lady Glossop, Tuppy’s Uncle and Aunt-of-marriage. The thoughtful Wooster noted begrudgingly that if Sir Roderick and Lady Glossop were invited, Honoria Glossop would also have to be invited.

Bertie got up, pushing away thoughts of his brief engagement to the Glossop daughter, and walked over to phone.

He started to dial the numbers of all his Drones friends, starting with Barmy and ending with Catsmeat. They all agreed to be on their best behaviour.

Tuppy said that he was sure his Uncle, Aunt and cousin would be happy to go. Just to be sure, Bertie dialled Sir Roderick and waited for the Glossop to answer.

“Hello?” Roderick’s voice snapped in Bertie’s ear.

“What-ho, Roderick…” The Wooster said, but his greeting lacked its usual cheer.

“Bertram Wooster? Good lord, is that really you?” The ‘Loony Doctor’ (as some called him) spoke in surprise.

“Yes, ‘tis I, the famous Bertie Wooster, please call me ‘Bertie’, Roderick, we’ve been friends for ages.”

“Of course…Bertie.” Roderick said his nickname as though he was learning a foreign language. “Anyway, what did you call me for, Bertie?”

“I…I was wondering whether you would consider coming to the funeral of Aunt Dahlia on the 23rd, next week?”

“Oh of course, goodness Bertie, you don’t have to sound so nervous, we’re your friends, of course we’ll come.” Roderick’s tone of reassurance did exactly what it was meant to: Fill the young Wooster with something that made him feel as though he could pour his heart out to the Glossop on the end of the telephone.

“Thank you, Glossop, would Honoria be attending?”

“Oh no, she doesn’t have much to do with her dear old parents nowadays, she’s gotten married.”

Bertie almost choked on his own breath. “M-Married? To who? I didn’t know she had even met anyone.”

“Neither did we, she was…She was…I can’t think of the word…” Roderick fumbled for his words.

“Courting?” Bertie offered.

“Yes, thank you, Bertie.” Roderick said, “We didn’t know she was courting with this new man. This is the first we’ve heard of it, she just came up to us merely two hours ago and said that she was married to…Oh, what was his name?” He clicked his tongue. “Ah yes, his name was Julian Reeves.”

“Lovely, at least she’s happy.” Bertie said.

“We’ve met this Julian, he’s actually very likable, but God help him if he breaks Honoria’s heart.”

“As long as he gets the parents’ approval, all is well. Anyway, Glossop, I‘d better go.” Bertie said.

“Alright, see you next week, Bertie.” Roderick said and cut off.

Bertie put the phone down and sat on the sofa, unsure what to do now that he had called everyone that he wanted to be there at the funeral. But he had one last person to ask.

Jeeves. Even though the valet would of course say that his place was at Mr. Wooster’s side, if he didn’t want to go, then he wouldn’t be forced. Bertie couldn’t even dream of forcing him anyway.


	7. The Valet's Opinion

He popped his head around the door of the kitchen and his eyes locked on his valet, sitting at the table, his back turned to the door. “Jeeves.” Bertie announced his presence and the valet started to stand up. “No, no, you can sit.” Bertie said hurriedly. Jeeves did as he was asked and Bertie came into the kitchen and sat across the table from his valet.

“How can I be of assistance to you, sir?” Jeeves asked.

“I was thinking…” Bertie started.

“A most useful pastime, sir.”

“Yes, quite. Well, I was wondering if you wanted to come to the funeral with me.”

“Sir, my place-”

“Is at my side, I know.” Bertie cut into Jeeves’ usual saying of where his place was. “I mean…Do you want to come to a place where people will be crying and giving speeches that will be long and droning and…And…?”

“And, sir, you will be one of those crying people. I have seen you, during my time in your employment, make a great many speeches, sometimes long, sometimes droning, and I have also seen you shed a great many tears, whether from some heartbreak or something more. So it is not unusual for me to see what you have just described. I have never been to a funeral, so I have no experience of this sort of ceremony. But I know how much my appearance there will mean to you, sir, so of course I will attend Mrs. Travers’ funeral.” Jeeves said.

Bertie smiled, and this time it was genuine, his eyes were kind and thankful as though the person pressing on his shoulders had let up. “Jeeves, I’ve said it before, many times, and I’ll say it again, many times: You are a marvel.” He said.

“Thank you, sir.” Jeeves said.

Bertie stood up. “That will be all, Jeeves.” He said, walking out of the kitchen. A great relief had been released from his shoulders; Jeeves’ word was taken on any subject by the young Wooster, be it the tie he wore to how he could dodge Aunt Agatha’s spits of venom. Every word that rolled from the valet’s tongue was a word to be treasured and stored in the young master’s memory.

He looked at the clock and saw that it read half past two. He sighed a little and disappeared into his bedroom, he picked up the mystery novel he was reading ‘ _The Clue in the Monocle_ ’ about a main character detective who coincidentally had a monocle and was investigating the murder of Claude Wilkinson, the Duke of Bedford Manor, the only clue that was scraped up was that the murderer had a monocle. Thus, the detective was a suspect; Bertie thought that it just couldn’t get any rummier than what it already was.

The reading Wooster couldn’t help but imagine Claude Wilkinson as Catsmeat because they both shared the name ‘Claude’. His cousin, Claude, also shared the same name, but the description was black-haired, moustached and fond of cats, how could he not imagine the dead body as his tuna nicknamed friend? The Wooster lounged on his bed, his pillows caressing his back and shoulders.

We’ll leave Bertram to read his book for the next three hours in peace and we will see what Jeeves’ mind was up to.

How could the valet let his young master starve himself to death? He also had worries about Bertie’s drinking becoming excessive, he was starting to ask for less and less soda in his whisky and soda drink at three, five and nine o’clock. The valet was also noticing the decreasing colour in the Wooster cheeks, what he meant by this was that each morning that he was awoken with Jeeves’ usual “Good morning, sir.” Bertie was just that little paler, whether it was due to the lack of food or just the ever approaching date of the funeral.

Speaking of the funeral, – which was only four days away – Bertie had not prepared a speech. Jeeves’ mind set to work, the gears and buttons and levers being cranked, pushed and pulled. If Jeeves wrote down, on the typewriter, a speech and then gave it to Bertie to read and tweak in any way he liked, if he liked, then he wouldn’t fumble for words when it came to standing in front of his family and friends.

The night of the theatre act came to Jeeves’ working brain: Bertie had been put into the charge of Cyril Bassington-Bassington, and Aunt Agatha had sent a letter saying that said Bassington-Bassington was not to come into any contact with a Broadway musical, however Cyril, the young blighter, had torn up the letter and done what Agatha had not wanted him to do: Perform. Cyril had found a place in the musical ‘ _Oscar!’_ and had said, “Pardon me for mentioning ladies, but the house is on fire.” and never appeared in the musical again. Agatha had come down to see the musical and Bertie had had to take Cyril’s spot for fear of being found out by his Aunt and properly grilled for it. But Bertie had frozen on his cue. The petrified Wooster had been shoved out onto stage and was reminded of his line about five or six times. Bertie had never known that he suffered from stage-fright, for he had performed comfortably a couple of times, but they were only small audiences of around thirty to maybe even thirty-five, never had he been in an arena filled will ten thousand, maybe more, spectators. The Wooster had yelled out in a cracked voice, “ **FIRE!** ” and everyone had started to scream and run for the exits.

Jeeves directed his thoughts back to the task at hand: The speech. As he washed the dishes, the starting sentence of the speech ran through his mind, “ _I never thought I’d see the day where Aunt Dahlia died, she always seemed as though she’d outlive the entire human race._ ” As he did the rest of the chores, odd snippets of the speech flicked through his mind: As he dusted the mirror, “ _If she could see this funeral now…She’d probably end up tutting and telling everyone to sort themselves out and stop crying._ ” As he picked up a hat from the floor and placed it on the hat stand, “ _Aunt Dahlia’s smile was best thing I had ever seen, it outdone the sun in its brightness, it was bigger than Mount Everest and it filled my heart with more happiness than my whisky and soda._ ”

His speech was almost complete by the time Bertie came out of his bedroom for his nine o’clock whisky. The Wooster was still holding his ‘ _The Clue in the Monocle_ ’ book. He sat down on the sofa to the left of the table where Jeeves would prepare the drink and opened his book to where he had marked his place. Jeeves filled the glass half full with whisky and was about to put a larger amount of soda in when Bertie piped up. “Go light on the soda, would you, Jeeves?” He said, not taking his eyes off the book.

“Very well, sir.” Jeeves replied with an audible hesitation in his tone. He filled the glass only a few more millilitres with soda and placed the small cup on a silver tray and then handed it to the young master.

Bertie took the glass off the tray and gulped all of it down in one mouthful. He placed the now empty glass back on the tray. “Thank you, Jeeves.” He said, looking up at his valet and meeting his eyes for the first time since they had been in the same room that evening.

“Not at all, sir.” Jeeves said and broke their eye contact by standing straight and putting the empty glass laden tray back on the table. “Sir, may I take away five or ten minutes of your time for a conversation between us?” He asked his reading master.

“Of course, old thing, you’re welcome to take up any number of minutes of my time as you like. What’s troubling you?” Bertie said, folding the corner of his page and closing the book.

Jeeves chewed on his tongue for a second and then fixed his young master with his steely eyes and started to speak. “Sir, you are worrying me, you have not eaten for two days and your alcohol consumption seems to be getting rather out of hand. I know you are suffering, but you need to give your body the nutrition it needs, not alcohol that will destroy it.” Jeeves concluded.

Bertie gaped. “I…I…Jeeves…I never thought…I didn’t think you…Cared about me like that…” He said, fumbling for words that wouldn’t make him seem like a complete and utter idiot.

“Sir, I have been in your employ for six years, of course I care.” Jeeves said. Even now, his voice was reserved, empty and expressionless; it had been the same ever since the valet and master had first met each other. Sometimes it frustrated Bertie because he didn’t know whether Jeeves was really bothered about his problems, but the young master had grown used to it and brushed off as carelessly as a fly on his shoulder.

Bertie opened his mouth as if to say something, but closed it again, both of their eyes were holding each other’s stare, as though their entire conversation was being played through their gaze. Jeeves’ eyes betrayed more emotion than his tone did, he was well practised in keeping a monotone and forcing the emotion away and into his eyes.

In fact, if there was a conversation between the Jeeves and Wooster eyes, then it would probably go something like this.

_ “Jeeves…You are my life, do you know that? If you had never shown up at my door in my employ…I wouldn’t be the Wooster I am today, I would be…Most probably married to Pauline Stoker, in prison and half dressed in the cell at that.” _

_ “Sir, I know what you would be without me, circumstances would not be pleasurable on your side. I am not sure where I would be without you either, sir.” _

_ “Something you don’t know? Who are you and what have you done with the real Jeeves?” _

_ “There has been no kidnapping of the sort, sir; I trust that you know that?” _

_ “Of course I do, Jeeves, I was merely nodding to the fact that normally you know anything and everything about whatever people ask you about. Dash it all, you can even come up with a rhyme for ‘Putting on the regency’, how many people can do that, especially in around a space of two seconds?” _

_ “I have not had the pleasure of meeting such a person, sir.” _

This conversation would probably extend rather a long time into the night, so we shall leave the valet and his master to continue their conversation for this exact amount of time. Although their conversation was played through speech instead of glints and squints of their eyes.


	8. The Speech

“For several years, I have tried to cover my emotions, my inner thoughts, my opinions of the things and people around me. For several years, my life was not all sunshine and roses; I was bullied and teased all because I never had parents, but what they didn’t understand was that I _did_ , even though they were not biological: My Uncle Henry and…Aunt Dahlia.”

He was reading out the speech that Jeeves had written for him. He and his valet had swapped roles, Bertie was standing up, reading from the sheet of paper that he held in his hand and Jeeves was sitting on the sofa, listening as though he was hearing it for the first time, as though he was a member of the family or friends that would be sitting in the pews of the church and taking in the speeches and funeral ceremony.

“They were the ones that helped me, that…Taught me, that…That loved me.” Bertram’s voice was shaking and the hesitations in his speech were not written down on paper, but were written down by emotion, wanting him to falter and crack and break down under it. But Bertram Wilberforce Wooster was nothing if not a (metaphorical) soldier, he stood against it and worked his way through each sentence, only allowing his voice to crack and force him to hesitate between words and at odd times repeat them and then carry on.

“But I am not standing here to talk about my childhood; I am here to talk about Aunt Dahlia. She was…She was the most wonderful, encouraging and spiteful woman I’ve ever met…She could hold a grudge very well…I should know.” Bertie cracked a smile.

“I have a poem that I believe fits this occasion beautifully:” The trembling master swallowed and began to read:

“I'd like the memory of me to be a happy one.  
I'd like to leave an afterglow of smiles when life is done.  
I'd like to leave an echo whispering softly down the ways,   
Of happy times and laughing times and bright and sunny days.  
I'd like the tears of those who grieve, to dry before the sun;   
Of happy memories that I leave when life is done.”

Bertie’s chest was heaving and tears were flowing down his cheeks and he was hiccoughing, he sank to his knees and he was almost willing for Jeeves to kneel down beside him and just hold his breaking master in his strong arms.

Jeeves could sense the longing emanating from his master and thus, in response to the longing, the valet knelt down beside Bertie and wrapped his arms around the shaking shoulders. Bertie buried his head into Jeeves’ chest and folded his own arms around the black-suit-clad shoulders, hugging his most trusted friend into his slender form.

They stayed like this, hugging on the floor of Bertie’s apartment at Berkeley Mansions in London, for a rather long time. It was the very first time they had ever had a friend-to-friend moment like this, instead of a master-and-valet moment.

If they were both honest to themselves, they were rather enjoying this moment out of the working relationship they shared. Bertie felt that there was no other man, other than his valet, that he would want to spend his most emotional moments with. And in turn with his master, Jeeves could not think of a more suitable person to shed tears or show anger in front of and want comfort from than his master, Bertram Wooster.

Again, we shall leave the master and his valet to share this special moment together, to enforce the rights of privacy and secrets and skip to the 23rd of August, the day of the funeral.


End file.
